


Que viva la noche

by julads



Category: The Three Caballeros (1944)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Mexico
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11251878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julads/pseuds/julads
Summary: Panchito and José slip away from yet another night out on the town.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **8/7/17 edit:** For a complete English version of this fic, head to [chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11251878/chapters/26436450)!
> 
> * * *
> 
> How do these things happen? Look, I don't know, one night a few weeks ago [MadTuna](https://mad-tuna.tumblr.com/) links me [Aquarela do Brasil](https://tinyurl.com/mflv2u6), the next, I'm joking that I ship these birds after rewatching _Saludos Amigos_ and _The Three Caballeros_. Then, like fucking magic, we quite literally stumble upon a shocking amount of [José/Panchito](https://tinyurl.com/lk94qsj) fanart over on Pixiv (my favorite artists being [互](https://tinyurl.com/jvry5sg) and, for amazing human versions of these guys, [とまと子](https://tinyurl.com/n8lju7j) and [ちゃいこ](https://tinyurl.com/m8or3vc)).
> 
> And from that point on, we went absolutely bird crazy for about ten days, lamenting the fact that so little NSFW exists of this pairing. So I knew what I had to do, which was to write historical fic of these birds as humans, as inspired by the bizarre "You Belong To My Heart" sequence from the movie and my love for the Golden Age of Mexican Cinema, especially cabaretera films!
> 
> Anyway, this fic is additionally weird in that they speak to each other in their native languages – yay for mutual intelligibility!
> 
> Finally, thanks so, so, so much to my dearest friends [MadTuna](https://mad-tuna.tumblr.com/) and [Caulaty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/caulaty) for looking over the Spanish and Portuguese respectively. ♥

_“Você nunca pensou nele? Nem quando era mais jovem?”_

These were the words that played over and over Panchito’s mind, since the night in Acapulco when José had first murmured them, his voice made even smoother by tequila, all the way up to now, in the notorious Salón México, where the blurry drunken night had just deposited them. The three of them, that is – Donald was up there nearly climbing onto the stage, shamelessly salivating over the semi-nude dancers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Panchito watched José watch the performance, falling apart by how utterly contented he looked, his olive cheeks graced with a drunken blush, by how he sucked on that cigar languidly, his head and shoulders moving to the beat of the rumba. And, as if that weren’t enough, there was the faintest touch of sweat just below his jaw, the last lascivious nail in Panchito’s coffin.

That was the face that now adorned the charms let loose from Pandora’s Box all those years ago, the ones that swirled in Panchito’s head and in his blood. The face that now glanced at Panchito and smiled, raising his eyebrows and saying, “Ela é lindíssima, né?”

“É,” Panchito agreed, dragging his eyes towards the vedette on stage. He could see that she was pretty, singing and dancing up there in an insane outfit that left her legs completely bare. She held the salón in a trance, but Panchito looked at her as if she were a marionette doll, more interested in the mambo than her sex.

While this city held places where Panchito wasn’t a black sheep, with life ever on the line, the memory of those nights was threatening, as threatening as having this crush in the first place. And on that night in Acapulco, on the balcony of his hotel room, he’d somehow ended up playing with fire.

It was about that stupid gag with Donald kissing José. That stupid fucking gag.

“Yo no lo habría hecho, ni por un mil pesos,” Panchito had said, and if he weren’t drunk, the knot in his throat would’ve been enormous.

At that, José simply laughed. It was a laugh that echoed through the night air like silk, almost sultrily. “Então, ainda bem que não foi você.” But then he said something really damning: “Mas por que te preocupa tanto com isso em primeiro lugar? Foi uma brincadeira. Uma bobagem. Você não esqueceu que isso é uma comédia, não?”

“ _Sé_ que es una comedia,” Pachito said, “pero actúas tan tranquilo como siempre, aunque sea tan raro. Eso es lo que estoy tratando de decir.”

“É atuação,” José said with a shrug, as if Panchito didn’t know that. “Mas ainda que não…”

“¿Qué?” Panchito pressed when José didn’t continue.

José shook his head and laughed quietly. “Tô muito bêbado,” he murmured, amusement still in his voice. He took a long drag of his cigar, and when he exhaled, the smoke curled up into the air lazily. “Não sei. É só que… Você nunca pensou nele? Ficar com outro homem, digo. Nem quando era mais jovem?”

“No,” Panchito immediately said. “Nunca.”

As drunk as he was, panic had still cut through Panchito, and so instead of flinging the question back at José, he ended up changing the topic. Thus, in the coming days, he was left to wonder what was going through José’s mind that night, if perhaps he was revisiting an old memory he’d once entertained. That would’ve been all it was though, a wayward fantasy from a long time ago. Not an obsession, not the curse that set Panchito apart, made him different, abnormal.

So it didn’t matter if José had once thought about men that way. It just didn’t matter.

But it did make it that much harder to see those long fingers distractedly tap the cigar in the ashtray, to see those lips curled in an expression of supreme bliss, amber eyes sparkling behind long lashes. These were the things that made Panchito feel like he was losing his mind, like any minute now, that question he didn’t ask before would suddenly erupt from his mouth: _“Has pensando en ello_ tú? _”_

But all Panchito did was sit there with the rim of the glass of whiskey idling over his lower lip. There was some melancholy in the alcohol now, the ice clicking with agitation.

Up ahead, the doorman had come to restrain Donald. José was chuckling at this; Panchito just barely sighing.

“Van a echarlo,” he said with a grimace.

Donald struggled free and began arguing with the doorman in English. It was hard to watch, and so Panchito was relieved when Donald stormed away instead of pushing it.

When Donald made it back to their table, his voice was still angry: “Come on boys, let’s get us one of ‘em girls to dance with.”

Panchito and José ended up going along with the idea, meandering through the circular tables back to the lobby. Here, where the cool breeze wafted in from the street, it occurred to Panchito how much nicer it would be to _not_ be here, to not have to go dance with some woman and try to have a conversation with her.

So, before they made it to the other dance hall, he spoke up and said: “You know, friends, I think I had enough fun for one night. Dance with some pretty girl for me, okay?”

“Whaddya mean?” Donald said, slurring. “You’re headin’ back to the hotel?”

“You know me,” Panchito said, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “early to bed, early to rise.”

With incredible emphasis, Donald told him, “You’re gonna be missing out!”

“Ahah, tell me it over breakfast tomorrow,” Panchito said. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, sweet dreams!” José said with this almost dopey smile on his face, his own eyes a little sleepy.

It hurt Panchito’s heart, just how beautiful he was, made him long to extend this night just so he could be near him. If only Donald had behaved himself in the other salón.

The street was cool but still very much alive, with electric lights and blue shadows of people roaming the street. It was good to be out here though, liberated from the wild heat of the city’s biggest cabaret. The building at his back was a blister ready to pop, the music and singing throbbing from within. Their car was parked right in front – Panchito could even see the shadow of their chauffeur’s head hanging sleepily despite the noise. The drive back would take five minutes tops, but, confident he knew the way, Panchito just started walking.

It was when he got to the intersection, just before he was about to cross the street, that he heard that easy voice call out to him. When he turned around, he saw his friend in the warm light of the street lamp, nearly running towards him. José stopped not ten centimeters away, close enough that Panchito could smell the alcohol on his breath, the sweat on his skin.

His lips curled in a crooked smile, he said, “Eu não queria que você voltasse sozinho.”

The way he said it was so earnest, almost kiddish, a funny thing because José had two years on him. For a second there, Panchito wasn’t even sure what to say, but he could feel himself smiling foolishly.

“No voy en carro,” he finally replied, stating the obvious. “Iba a pasar por el parque.”

“Mmm, uma caminhadinha pelo parque me parece maravilhosa agora.”

“Me niego a creer que prefieras dar un paseo conmigo en vez de bailar con una mujer bonita,” Panchito said amicably, jokingly.

“Eu já dancei muito esta noite,” José said more seriously, already beginning to walk. Laughing, he added, “Aliás, acho que tô bêbedo demais pra ser um cavalheiro.”

“Mmm que la…” Panchito said, rolling his eyes a little. “Pues, por lo menos _tú_ sabes tus límites.”

With another laugh, José commented, “Tenho de reconhecer, ele é determinado.”

Tiredly, Panchito replied, “Yeah, yeah.”

Things were quiet between them as they walked. Down the street, the lights of the city twinkled with too much life, and a block away, the Palacio de Bellas Artes was a dark dome, the marker of culture and refinement shut down during the hours of the night when sex and booze ravaged the city. Stretched out before the theatre was the park, a mass of huge and voluptuous trees beneath the sky, stripped of stars.

“Você está com sono?”

“Un poco, supongo,” Panchito replied, shrugging.

“Então, você quer beber mais quando chegarmos lá? No meu quarto, digo.”

Panchito looked at him for a moment before saying, “Claro.”

After crossing the street, they started down the wide white path that cut through the park. The lights from the lampposts were dimmer than those on the street, lighting the way like fallen stars.

“Que parque lindo,” José commented, throwing his head back and taking a deep breath of the late spring air.

“É.”

The moment itself was also beautiful, the park like a quieter, darker pocket of space they alone inhabited. José began humming the song the vedette had been singing, murmuring the refrain “arrimate cariñito” as he moved his head and torso just slightly to the beat. At the heart of the park, there was a large fountain, the sound of water a balm over Panchito’s agitated mind. He could have floated away, hoisted up into the violet clouds by the grandfatherly trees, propelled by the warmth of the night and the sweetness of the person at his side.

They soon reached the opposite end of the park, where they were again bombarded by the glitz and glamor of the city surging up and down Avenida Juárez. The Hotel Regis was just over to the right, a huge white building with a majestic façade that seethed ritz and luxury. They went into Capri, the cabaret in the hotel, where they headed over to the bar and decided on a bottle of tequila añejo, the kind José had yet to try. He seemed incredibly pleased about it as they went back through the plush lobby to the elevators, holding the bottle by the neck and swinging it around a little, humming a different song now.

It was heartwarming just seeing him like this, drunkenly leaning up against the wall of the elevator, holding that tequila in his arms like a drunken beggar in an expensive yellow suit. His bow tie was a little lopsided, and his hair was falling into his eyes. When he noticed Panchito looking at him, he raised his eyebrows in a friendly manner and said, “O que é?”

Oh, a lot of things: _“No sabes cuán perfecto eres”_ ; _“Nunca me canso de mirarte, de simplemente estar alrededor de ti”_ ; _“Si sólo supieras cuánto quiero besarte.”_

But Panchito just shook his head and smiled a bit before saying, “Nada.”

José laughed hard at that, and in those last few moments before the elevator reached their floor, everything seemed so soft and unthreatening: the little square space was alleviated by the sloppy effect of alcohol, warmed by the vigor of camaraderie on this night still young, its first few acts simmering into the intermission. Panchito remembered what José had said about being too drunk to be a gentleman, and his heart burned in his throat.

The hall was empty and quiet save for José’s murmured singing, the Portuguese words so sloppy and indistinct that Panchito could only barely make them out. In front of room 608, José stopped and began digging through his pockets, eventually setting the tequila down on the floor to do so more anxiously.

“Merda.”

“¿Perdiste tu llave?”

His face twisted in frustration, José muttered something before crouching down to feel around inside his shoes. Finding nothing, he straightened back up and tried the doorknob, which turned out to be unlocked.

“Aha! Olha pra isso!” he cheerfully exclaimed.

“Dios, ¿olvidaste cerrar la puerta también?”

“Ehe, parece que sim,” José admitted.

When José went to turn on the lamp, Panchito saw that the room was almost identical to his, comfortable and decadently ornate, with plenty of dark wood – the bed frame, the dresser – that created a cozy yet imperial atmosphere. Panchito dumped himself into one of the armchairs in the corner, to the left of the large window that looked down onto the street. From there, he watched José from behind as he struggled to peel the wrapper off the bottle, making little sounds of frustration. Panchito let out a long huff through his nostrils, unapologetically starring at his friend’s ass.

“Dámelo,” Panchito said.

“Eu consigo.”

But José eventually ceded, trudging over to Panchito to hand him the bottle, its furled and battered wrapper still clinging to its neck. José was standing incredibly close as Panchito tried to work the thing off, the other man nearly touching his knee. It made things even harder.

“Por que os fazem tão difíceis abrir?” José said with a touch of annoyance.

“No sé,” Panchito said, too drunk to think of a witty response.

At last, Panchito managed to peel the stupid wrapper off. “Ahí está,” he said before proceeding to uncork the bottle, the smell of tequila climbing up into his nostrils. 

“Ah, ótimo!” José remarked with such excitement that Panchito couldn’t help but laugh. It was a good, long laugh, the kind that comes from the heart. He topped it off with a swig of tequila, letting out a fierce sound of exclamation before handing the bottle to José.

After passing the bottle back and forth once more, José leaned back in the armchair, spreading his legs out, and said, “Cara, tô bêbedo pra caralho.” Then, his head resting on the back of the chair, he turned to face Panchito, looking at him with half lidded eyes. “Como é que um homem como tu não tens namorada?”

“No sé, cara. Nunca consigo que se queden.”

“Mas por que não? Você é amigável, divertido estar por perto, e em cima de tudo isso, muito bonito.”

“¡Bonito!” Panchito exclaimed, barking out a laugh.

Also laughing a little, José asked, “O que é?”

“La única persona que me llamaba eso era mi mamá.”

“Na sua vida inteira? Eu acho isso difícil de acreditar.”

“Ah, no, cara, es porque no se usa la palabra para referir a los hombres en español.”

“Bem,” José began resolutely, slurring, “eu te acho um homem bonito. O homem mais bonito que eu já vi na minha vida.”

He said that with a dreamy look in his eyes and an almost sly grin on his lips, his sprawled-out form highlighted by the fluorescent lights coming through the window.

“No debes andar por ahí diciéndole a los hombres que son bonitos,” Panchito said, trying to sound lax, not flustered. “Las personas pensarán cosas.” 

José just threw his head back and laughed. “Deixa que pensem o que quiserem!”

 _“Es fácil para ti decirlo,”_ Panchito thought.

At that moment, José got up and began rummaging through a brown paper bag that was on the dresser. Inside was an unopened gold box of Cuban cigars that he opened in a lazy, unhurried way, taking almost a full minute to get the plastic off. Next, he took out a cigar in a way that Panchito hated to describe as sensuous, but there was just something about the way he stroked the cigar with his index finger before plucking it out that struck him as borderline sexual. After sticking the fat cigar between his lips, José got a matchbook out of his inner coat pocket and struck one lit. With it, he lit the cigar, taking an exaggerated drag of it, almost as if he were a man dying of thirst drinking his first gulp of water. As he stood there in front of the dresser, staring at himself in the enormous mirror, he seemed pensive, yet when he turned to look at Panchito again, leaning against the furniture in an easy, casual way, he was his ordinary complacent self, cool and casual, those deep amber eyes brimming with confidence.

“¿Qué tal?”

José chuckled, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Você. É só você,” he said, taking a few steps closer and standing in front of Panchito, staring down at him. “Eu sei que você não é tão alheio… Você _deve_ saber que estou flertando contigo.”

The room was heavy and still, the same as it was on the balcony in Acapulco. Maybe even more so. Nevertheless, what came out of Panchito’s mouth was an anxious: “Jaja, ¿qué carajo?”

His voice dark with unapologetic, obvious lust, José said, “Você não me engana, Panchito. Não quando você é o meu tipo exacto de homem.” Then, he stepped forward such that his legs were touching the one that Panchito had resting over the other, ankle over the knee.

That was when things finally clicked for Panchito, sizzling in his mind with mindless comprehension. That was what bolstered him, was what made the drunken words fall from his mouth with a burning confidence: “He querido cogerte desde el momento que te conocí.”

José’s eyes glimmered as his lips spread into a smile. Then, slowly, rhythmically, he climbed onto Panchito, planting his legs on either side of him in the big, cushy armchair, effectively straddling him. Being this close to him was maddening, and without even thinking, Panchito’s hands began crawling up José’s body, feeling him over his clothes, along his sides and over his chest. Still with the cigar in his hand, José leaned down such that their hard cocks press together through the fabric, laying his arms out over the back of the chair so he could whisper in Panchito’s ear.

“Desde que você me conheceu, hein? Isso é verdade?” he said with seedy confidence, going so far as to grind himself against Panchito a little.

“Dios, sí. Carajo,” Panchito said, grunting and finally grabbing that ass, which forced a luxurious sigh out of José’s mouth as their cocks pressed together even harder.

José’s mouth, wet and desperate, was suddenly on Panchito’s, initiating a kiss so mindless and uncoordinated, so drenched with need and longing that no real thoughts intruded into Panchito’s mind as he devoured José’s mouth, incited to mania by the fervent way José kissed back, by the way he moved his hips to the rhythm of some imaginary danzón, taking long pleasure in every moment.

Never in Panchito’s life had he been seduced like this, had someone so brazenly say things in his ear like, _“Passei semanas em pensar no seu pau no meu cu.”_ And with both of them so drunk, so drowning in friction and pleasure, the result was crackling, hot, and mindless: Panchito’s hands were everywhere, idiotically trying to get José’s clothes off any which was as his dick pulsed and his eyes ate up the shamelessly sexual sight in front of him. What made it so fervent was that as much as José was saying he wanted to be fucked, he was no real pasivo, not with those lewd murmurs and the deliberate way he rubbed his body against Panchito, kissing his neck and running his fingers through his hair. And those moans and sighs – they were incessant, delicious and insatiable, melodic and unabashedly pleasured, each one somehow managing to make Panchito’s cock even harder.

José slipped down between Panchito’s legs and held his cock in his hands as if it were a fucking tabernacle, pressing his face to it and sighing with dreamy relief before engulfing the tip in his wet mouth. Panchito’s head spun into senselessness by the way José so enthusiastically devoured his cock, taking all of it into the hot suction of his mouth with such incredible finesse and desperation, the hot breath from his nostrils intermittently grazing over the shaft as he bobbed his head.

Panchito placed his hand on the back of José head, clutching his long hair between his fingers as he stared down at him hazily.  

“Te ves tan bien así.”

When José flashed his eyes open, they were dangerously knowing, his gaze so self-assured it incited Panchito to mania. God, he wanted to fuck him more than he’d ever wanted to fuck any man in his life. It was just everything about him: that cool confidence, that smooth voice, the way he moved, talked, kissed, moaned. And God, did he ever moan when Panchito’s fingers were inside of him, throwing his arms around Panchito’s neck while he licked his lips, this disastrous look in his eyes as he stared into Panchito’s and breathily murmured, “É _tão_ gostoso.” His hips were moving always, the rhythm of his pleasure sweet and pink in the air around them. 

“Eres increíble,” Panchito said, his voice deep, heated.

The corner of José’s mouth curled into something of a smirk as he rocked his hips long and slow in response, pressing himself into Panchito’s touch with drawn-out greed. He seemed to take his time relishing every sensation, having the composure to truly enjoy such delights, not to mention the maturity to know which ones he wanted. It was remarkable and unmitigated, that salacious confidence, just the way he spun out such obscenities, his voice as rich and sweet as quindim: “Te quero dentro de mim; preciso dele, deus, como eu preciso desse charro pau.”

“Voy a dártelo,” Panchito murmured, voice edged with both reassurance and excitement. “Joder, cómo te voy a llenar.”

The moment Panchito grabbed José’s hip to flip him over, José immediately took the initiative to assume the position himself, rolling onto his stomach with tantalizing agility. He even bent his knees and thrust his ass into the air, completely unfazed that he was presenting himself like this, his whole taint slick with the oil, shining in the lamp’s yellow glow. It was the first time Panchito had ever taken a good look at another man’s ass, and for a moment there, he just kneeled there on the bed with his cock in his hand completely transfixed by the sight. He was mesmerized by the way José’s hole, slick with oil, pulsed with need and expectation, how his balls clung tight to his body, how his heavy cock dangled between his legs like a pendulum, dying to be touched again.

Panchito held him by the hips as he scooted forward, positioning himself, touching the head of his cock to José’s entrance, which had José immediately pressing into it, rubbing against it like a cat as he murmured senseless sounds. Nevertheless, Panchito tried to go slow, pushing the head of his cock into José with deliberate care, as much as his mind was exploding like dynamite, as hard as he was and as good as it felt being enveloped in the insanely tight grip of José’s ass.

Throughout all of this, José sighed and groaned, moving his hips to coax Panchito deeper inside him. His breathing was coming in in small huffs, his said: “Não sejas tão lento; eu não me aguento mais. Me fode, caralho, me fode gostoso.”

He didn’t have to ask Panchito twice: in the frenzy of the moment, his mind shredded into hot tatters, he was only the heat of his body connected to this man, whom he fucked with all the vigor and longing that had held him in a similar vice these past few months. It was with that that he thrust into him again and again, eventually leaning down such that his whole body was touching José’s. He dipped his face into the crook of his neck and awkwardly kissed his mouth, dragging his lips across his jaw and down his neck.

There was never a moment where José wasn’t moving too, rocking his hips up to meet Panchito’s thrusts, his movements smooth, intensely erotic.

“Me estás volviendo loco,” Panchito said as he pounded himself into José with a shameless slap, his voice nearly a growl.

At that, José let out a soft string of laughs, as if he were pleased with himself for it.

They fucked for a good while, even face to face, something Panchito hadn’t done before. It was almost too intimate, and so real with the lights on. He could see José’s every reaction to his movements, see the way his eyes shifted and widened when he hit the right spot. The way he sighed or moaned meant so much more with these visuals. It struck something mushy and cariñoso in Panchito’s heart, a part of him that was a little too wide open with how drunk he was. That was what made him kiss every part of José’s face as he slowly fucked him, even pausing occasionally, just reveling in the way José squeezed around him. And God, how he squeezed around him with his whole body when he came, uttering moans and breaths that blended together like a symphony.

When Panchito himself finally came, it was like a tired ocean wave washing over him, delayed and even gentle, lasting a long time but never dragging him under. Almost peaceful. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, he dropped down on top of José, catching his breath for minutes, secretly so thankful for the way José’s arms wrapped around his back, holding him. Things had never ended like this.

Still breathing hard, Panchito eventually pushed himself up to look at José in the warm light, brushing away a strand of hair from his face.

“O que é?” José said, the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips.

It took Panchito a moment before he gently said: “Lo sabías.”

“Sim,” José admitted with an apologetic smile.

“¿Cómo?”

“É como eu já te disse – você é o meu tipo exato de homem,” José casually replied, that sly little look in his eyes again. “Mas não te preocupes – ninguém mais pode dizer. Te prometo isso.”

Panchito let out a long sigh, the last of the anxiety that dwelled in him. “Pues, es bueno saberlo.”

Later, he lay on his side next to him and studied Jose’s face as he smoked that cigar again. “Tú eres el bonito, sabes.”

José smirked and said, “Espera até me ver num vestido.”


	2. Long Live the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A complete English version as requested by LunaMoonlight100 :)

_“You’ve never thought about it? Not even when you were younger?”_

These were the words that played over and over Panchito’s mind, since the night in Acapulco when José had first murmured them, his voice made even smoother by tequila, all the way up to now, in the notorious Salón México, where the blurry drunken night had just deposited them. The three of them, that is – Donald was up there nearly climbing onto the stage, shamelessly salivating over the semi-nude dancers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Panchito watched José watch the performance, falling apart by how utterly contented he looked, his olive cheeks graced with a drunken blush, by how he sucked on that cigar languidly, his head and shoulders moving to the beat of the rumba. And, as if that weren’t enough, there was the faintest touch of sweat just below his jaw, the last lascivious nail in Panchito’s coffin.

That was the face that now adorned the charms let loose from Pandora’s Box all those years ago, the ones that swirled in Panchito’s head and in his blood. The face that now glanced at Panchito and smiled, raising his eyebrows and saying, “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Panchito agreed, dragging his eyes towards the vedette on stage. He could see that she was pretty, singing and dancing up there in an insane outfit that left her legs completely bare. She held the hall in a trance, but Panchito looked at her as if she were a marionette doll, more interested in the mambo than her sex.

While this city held places where Panchito wasn’t a black sheep, with life ever on the line, the memory of those nights was threatening, as threatening as having this crush in the first place. And on that night in Acapulco, on the balcony of his hotel room, he’d somehow ended up playing with fire.

It was about that stupid gag with Donald kissing José. That stupid fucking gag.

“I wouldn’t have done it, not for a thousand pesos,” Panchito had said, and if he weren’t drunk, the knot in his throat would’ve been enormous.

At that, José simply laughed. It was a laugh that echoed through the night air like silk, almost sultrily. “Well, good thing it wasn’t you then.” But then he said something really damning: “Why are you so worried about it though? It was a joke, you know, a stupid gag. You haven’t forgotten this is a comedy, have you?”

“I _know_ it’s a comedy,” Pachito said, “but you’re just so relaxed about it, even though it’s so weird. _That’s_ what I’m trying to say.”

“It’s acting,” José said with a shrug, as if Panchito didn’t know that. “But even if it weren’t…”

“What?” Panchito pressed when José didn’t continue.

José shook his head and laughed quietly. “I’m so drunk,” he murmured, amusement still in his voice. He took a long drag of his cigar, and when he exhaled, the smoke curled up into the air lazily. “I don’t know. It’s just… You’ve never thought about it? Being with another man, I mean. Not even when you were younger?”

“No,” Panchito immediately said. “Never.”

As drunk as he was, panic had still cut through Panchito, and so instead of flinging the question back at José, he ended up changing the topic. Thus, in the coming days, he was left to wonder what was going through José’s mind that night, if perhaps he was revisiting an old memory he’d once entertained. That would’ve been all it was though, a wayward fantasy from a long time ago. Not an obsession, not the curse that set Panchito apart, made him different, abnormal.

So it didn’t matter if José had once thought about men that way. It just didn’t matter.

But it did make it that much harder to see those long fingers distractedly tap the cigar in the ashtray, to see those lips curled in an expression of supreme bliss, amber eyes sparkling behind long lashes. These were the things that made Panchito feel like he was losing his mind, like any minute now, that question he didn’t ask before would suddenly erupt from his mouth:  _“Have_ you _ever thought about it?”_

But all Panchito did was sit there with the rim of the glass of whiskey idling over his lower lip. There was some melancholy in the alcohol now, the ice clicking with agitation.

Up ahead, the doorman had come to restrain Donald. José was chuckling at this; Panchito just barely sighing.

“They’re going to kick him out,” he said with a grimace.

Donald struggled free and began arguing with the doorman in English. It was hard to watch, and so Panchito was relieved when Donald stormed away instead of pushing it.

When Donald made it back to their table, his voice was still angry: “C’mon boys, let’s get us one of ‘em girls to dance with.”

Panchito and José ended up going along with the idea, meandering through the circular tables back to the lobby. Here, where the cool breeze wafted in from the street, it occurred to Panchito how much nicer it would be to  _not_  be here, to not have to go dance with some woman and try to have a conversation with her.

So, before they made it to the other dance hall, he spoke up and said: “You know, friends, I think I’ve had enough fun for one night. Dance with some pretty girl for me, okay?”

“Whaddya mean?” Donald said, slurring. “You’re headin’ back to the hotel?”

“You know me,” Panchito said, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “early to bed, early to rise.”

With incredible emphasis, Donald told him, “You’re gonna be missing out!”

“Ahah, tell me it over breakfast tomorrow,” Panchito said. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, sweet dreams!” José said with this almost dopey smile on his face, his own eyes a little sleepy.

It hurt Panchito’s heart, just how beautiful he was, made him long to extend this night just so he could be near him. If only Donald had behaved himself in the other hall.

The street was cool but still very much alive, with electric lights and blue shadows of people roaming the street. It was good to be out here though, liberated from the wild heat of the city’s biggest cabaret. The building at his back was a blister ready to pop, the music and singing throbbing from within. Their car was parked right in front – Panchito could even see the shadow of their chauffeur’s head hanging sleepily despite the noise. The drive back would take five minutes tops, but, confident he knew the way, Panchito just started walking.

It was when he got to the intersection, just before he was about to cross the street, that he heard that easy voice call out to him. When he turned around, he saw his friend in the warm light of the street lamp, nearly running towards him. José stopped not ten centimeters away, close enough that Panchito could smell the alcohol on his breath, the sweat on his skin.

His lips curled in a crooked smile, he said, “I didn’t want you to walk back alone.”

The way he said it was so earnest, almost kiddish, a funny thing because José had two years on him. For a second there, Panchito wasn’t even sure what to say, but he could feel himself smiling foolishly.

“I’m not taking the car,” he finally replied, stating the obvious. “I was going to cut through the park.”

“Mmm, a walk in the park sounds wonderful right now.”

“I find it hard to believe you’d rather take a walk with me than dance with some pretty woman,” Panchito said amicably, jokingly.

“I already danced a lot tonight,” José said more seriously, already beginning to walk. Laughing, he added, “Besides, I think I’m a little too drunk to be a gentleman.”

“Oh, God,” Panchito said, rolling his eyes a little. “Well, at least _you_ know your limits.”

With another laugh, José commented, “You’ve got to admit, he’s determined.”

Tiredly, Panchito replied, “Yeah, yeah.”

Things were quiet between them as they walked. Down the street, the lights of the city twinkled with too much life, and a block away, the Palacio de Bellas Artes was a dark dome, the marker of culture and refinement shut down during the hours of the night when sex and booze ravaged the city. Stretched out before the theatre was the park, a mass of huge and voluptuous trees beneath the sky, stripped of stars.

“You tired?” José asked.

“A little, I guess,” Panchito replied, shrugging.

“Well, would you like to drink some more when we get back? In my room, I mean.”

Panchito looked at him for a moment before saying, “Sure.”

After crossing the street, they started down the wide white path that cut through the park. The lights from the lampposts were dimmer than those on the street, lighting the way like fallen stars.

“What a beautiful park,” José commented, throwing his head back and taking a deep breath of the late spring air.

“Yeah.”

The moment itself was also beautiful, the park like a quieter, darker pocket of space they alone inhabited. José began humming the song the vedette had been singing, murmuring the refrain “arrimate cariñito” as he moved his head and torso just slightly to the beat. At the heart of the park, there was a large fountain, the sound of water a balm over Panchito’s agitated mind. He could have floated away, hoisted up into the violet clouds by the grandfatherly trees, propelled by the warmth of the night and the sweetness of the person at his side.

They soon reached the opposite end of the park, where they were again bombarded by the glitz and glamor of the city surging up and down Avenida Juárez. The Hotel Regis was just over to the right, a huge white building with a majestic façade that seethed ritz and luxury. They went into Capri, the cabaret in the hotel, where they headed over to the bar and decided on a bottle of tequila añejo, the kind José had yet to try. He seemed incredibly pleased about it as they went back through the plush lobby to the elevators, holding the bottle by the neck and swinging it around a little, humming a different song now.

It was heartwarming just seeing him like this, drunkenly leaning up against the wall of the elevator, holding that tequila in his arms like a drunken beggar in an expensive yellow suit. His bow tie was a little lopsided, and his hair was falling into his eyes. When he noticed Panchito looking at him, he raised his eyebrows in a friendly manner and said, “What is it?”

Oh, a lot of things:  _“You have no idea how perfect you are”_ ;  _“I never get tired of looking at you, of just being around you”_ ;  _“If only you knew how much I want to kiss you.”_

But Panchito just shook his head and smiled a bit before saying, “Nothing.”

José laughed hard at that, and in those last few moments before the elevator reached their floor, everything seemed so soft and unthreatening: the little square space was alleviated by the sloppy effect of alcohol, warmed by the vigor of camaraderie on this night still young, its first few acts simmering into the intermission. Panchito remembered what José had said about being too drunk to be a gentleman, and his heart burned in his throat.

The hall was empty and quiet save for José’s murmured singing, the Portuguese words so sloppy and indistinct that Panchito could only barely make them out. In front of room 608, José stopped and began digging through his pockets, eventually setting the tequila down on the floor to do so more anxiously.

“Shit,” José muttered.

“You lost your key?”

His face twisted in frustration, José muttered something before crouching down to feel around inside his shoes. Finding nothing, he straightened back up and tried the doorknob, which turned out to be unlocked.

“Aha! Would you look at that!” José cheerfully exclaimed.

“Christ, did you forget to lock the door too?”

“Ehe, looks like it,” José admitted.

When José went to turn on the lamp, Panchito saw that the room was almost identical to his, comfortable and decadently ornate, with plenty of dark wood – the bed frame, the dresser – that created a cozy yet imperial atmosphere. Panchito dumped himself into one of the armchairs in the corner, to the left of the large window that looked down onto the street. From there, he watched José from behind as he struggled to peel the wrapper off the bottle, making little sounds of frustration. Panchito let out a long huff through his nostrils, unapologetically starring at his friend’s ass.

“Give it to me,” Panchito said.

“I got it.”

But José eventually ceded, trudging over to Panchito to hand him the bottle, its furled and battered wrapper still clinging to its neck. José was standing incredibly close as Panchito tried to work the thing off, the other man nearly touching his knee. It made things even harder.

“Why do they make these things so hard to open?” José said with a touch of annoyance.

“No clue,” Panchito said, too drunk to think of a witty response.

At last, Panchito managed to peel the stupid wrapper off. “There,” he said before proceeding to uncork the bottle, the smell of tequila climbing up into his nostrils.

“Oh, excellent!” José remarked with such excitement that Panchito couldn’t help but laugh. It was a good, long laugh, the kind that comes from the heart. He topped it off with a swig of tequila, letting out a fierce sound of exclamation before handing the bottle to José.

After passing the bottle back and forth once more, José leaned back in the armchair, spreading his legs out, and said, “I’m so fucking drunk.” Then, his head resting on the back of the chair, he turned to face Panchito, looking at him with half lidded eyes. “How is it that a man like you doesn’t have a girlfriend?”

“I dunno man. I can never get ‘em to stay.”

“But why not? You’re kind, fun to hang out with, not to mention pretty.”

“Pretty!” Panchito exclaimed, barking out a laugh.

Also laughing a little, José asked, “What?”

“The only person who’s ever called me that was my mother.”

“In your whole life? I find that hard to believe.”

“No man, it’s because you don’t call men ‘pretty’ in Spanish.”

“Well,” José began resolutely, slurring, “I think you’re a very pretty man. The prettiest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He said that with a dreamy look in his eyes and an almost sly grin on his lips, his sprawled-out form highlighted by the fluorescent lights coming through the window.

“You can’t go around telling men they’re pretty,” Panchito said, trying to sound lax, not flustered. “People will think things.” 

José just threw his head back and laughed. “Let them think what they will!”

 _“Easy for you to say,”_  Panchito thought.

At that moment, José got up and began rummaging through a brown paper bag that was on the dresser. Inside was an unopened gold box of Cuban cigars that he opened in a lazy, unhurried way, taking almost a full minute to get the plastic off. Next, he took out a cigar in a way that Panchito hated to describe as sensuous, but there was just something about the way he stroked the cigar with his index finger before plucking it out that struck him as borderline sexual. After sticking the fat cigar between his lips, José got a matchbook out of his inner coat pocket and struck one lit. With it, he lit the cigar, taking an exaggerated drag of it, almost as if he were a man dying of thirst drinking his first gulp of water. As he stood there in front of the dresser, staring at himself in the enormous mirror, he seemed pensive, yet when he turned to look at Panchito again, leaning against the furniture in an easy, casual way, he was his ordinary complacent self, cool and casual, those deep amber eyes brimming with confidence.

“What is it?” Panchito said.

José chuckled, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “You. It’s just you,” he said, taking a few steps closer and standing in front of Panchito, staring down at him. “I know you’re not this dense… You _must_ know I’m flirting with you.”

The room was heavy and still, the same as it was on the balcony in Acapulco. Maybe even more so. Nevertheless, what came out of Panchito’s mouth was an anxious: “Haha, what the fuck?”

His voice dark with unapologetic, obvious lust, José said, “You can’t fool me, Panchito. Not when you’re exactly my type of man.” Then, he stepped forward such that his legs were touching the one that Panchito had resting over the other, ankle over the knee.

That was when things finally clicked for Panchito, sizzling in his mind with mindless comprehension. That was what bolstered him, was what made the drunken words fall from his mouth with a burning confidence: “I’ve wanted to fuck you since I first met you.”

José’s eyes glimmered as his lips spread into a smile. Then, slowly, rhythmically, he climbed onto Panchito, planting his legs on either side of him in the big, cushy armchair, effectively straddling him. Being this close to him was maddening, and without even thinking, Panchito’s hands began crawling up José’s body, feeling him over his clothes, along his sides and over his chest. Still with the cigar in his hand, José leaned down such that their hard cocks press together through the fabric, laying his arms out over the back of the chair so he could whisper in Panchito’s ear.

“Since you first met me, huh? Is that true?” he said with seedy confidence, going so far as to grind himself against Panchito a little.

“God, yes. Fuck,” Panchito said, grunting and finally grabbing that ass, which forced a luxurious sigh out of José’s mouth as their cocks pressed together even harder.

José’s mouth, wet and desperate, was suddenly on Panchito’s, initiating a kiss so mindless and uncoordinated, so drenched with need and longing that no real thoughts intruded into Panchito’s mind as he devoured José’s mouth, incited to mania by the fervent way José kissed back, by the way he moved his hips to the rhythm of some imaginary _danzón_ , taking long pleasure in every moment.

Never in Panchito’s life had he been seduced like this, had someone so brazenly say things in his ear like,  _“I’ve spent weeks thinking about your cock in my ass.”_ And with both of them so drunk, so drowning in friction and pleasure, the result was crackling, hot, and mindless: Panchito’s hands were everywhere, idiotically trying to get José’s clothes off any which was as his dick pulsed and his eyes ate up the shamelessly sexual sight in front of him. What made it so fervent was that as much as José was saying he wanted to be fucked, he was no real _pasivo_ , not with those lewd murmurs and the deliberate way he rubbed his body against Panchito, kissing his neck and running his fingers through his hair. And those moans and sighs – they were incessant, delicious and insatiable, melodic and unabashedly pleasured, each one somehow managing to make Panchito’s cock even harder.

José slipped down between Panchito’s legs and held his cock in his hands as if it were a fucking tabernacle, pressing his face to it and sighing with dreamy relief before engulfing the tip in his wet mouth. Panchito’s head spun into senselessness by the way José so enthusiastically devoured his cock, taking all of it into the hot suction of his mouth with such incredible finesse and desperation, the hot breath from his nostrils intermittently grazing over the shaft as he bobbed his head.

Panchito placed his hand on the back of José head, clutching his long hair between his fingers as he stared down at him hazily.  

“You look so good like this,” Panchito said.

When José flashed his eyes open, they were dangerously knowing, his gaze so self-assured it incited Panchito to mania. God, he wanted to fuck him more than he’d ever wanted to fuck any man in his life. It was just everything about him: that cool confidence, that smooth voice, the way he moved, talked, kissed, moaned. And God, did he ever moan when Panchito’s fingers were inside of him, throwing his arms around Panchito’s neck while he licked his lips, this disastrous look in his eyes as he stared into Panchito’s and breathily murmured, “It feels  _so_ good.” His hips were moving always, the rhythm of his pleasure sweet and pink in the air around them. 

“You’re incredible,” Panchito said, his voice deep, heated.

The corner of José’s mouth curled into something of a smirk as he rocked his hips long and slow in response, pressing himself into Panchito’s touch with drawn-out greed. He seemed to take his time relishing every sensation, having the composure to truly enjoy such delights, not to mention the maturity to know which ones he wanted. It was remarkable and unmitigated, that salacious confidence, just the way he spun out such obscenities, his voice as rich and sweet as quindim: “I want you inside me; I need it, God, I need that _charro_ dick so bad.”

“I’m gonna give you it,” Panchito murmured, voice edged with both reassurance and excitement. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up so good.”

The moment Panchito grabbed José’s hip to flip him over, José immediately took the initiative to assume the position himself, rolling onto his stomach with tantalizing agility. He even bent his knees and thrust his ass into the air, completely unfazed that he was presenting himself like this, his whole taint slick with the oil, shining in the lamp’s yellow glow. It was the first time Panchito had ever taken a good look at another man’s ass, and for a moment there, he just kneeled there on the bed with his cock in his hand completely transfixed by the sight. He was mesmerized by the way José’s hole, slick with oil, pulsed with need and expectation, how his balls clung tight to his body, how his heavy cock dangled between his legs like a pendulum, dying to be touched again.

Panchito held him by the hips as he scooted forward, positioning himself, touching the head of his cock to José’s entrance, which had José immediately pressing into it, rubbing against it like a cat as he murmured senseless sounds. Nevertheless, Panchito tried to go slow, pushing the head of his cock into José with deliberate care, as much as his mind was exploding like dynamite, as hard as he was and as good as it felt being enveloped in the insanely tight grip of José’s ass.

Throughout all of this, José sighed and groaned, moving his hips to coax Panchito deeper inside him. His breathing was coming in in small huffs, his said: “Don’t go so slow; I can’t take it anymore. God, please, fuck me, fuck me _hard_.”

He didn’t have to ask Panchito twice: in the frenzy of the moment, his mind shredded into hot tatters, he was only the heat of his body connected to this man, whom he fucked with all the vigor and longing that had held him in a similar vice these past few months. It was with that that he thrust into him again and again, eventually leaning down such that his whole body was touching José’s. He dipped his face into the crook of his neck and awkwardly kissed his mouth, dragging his lips across his jaw and down his neck.

There was never a moment where José wasn’t moving too, rocking his hips up to meet Panchito’s thrusts, his movements smooth, intensely erotic.

“You’re making me crazy,” Panchito said as he pounded himself into José with a shameless slap, his voice nearly a growl.

At that, José let out a soft string of laughs, as if he were pleased with himself for it.

They fucked for a good while, even face to face, something Panchito hadn’t done beore. It was almost too intimate, and so real with the lights on. He could see José’s every reaction to his movements, see the way his eyes shifted and widened when he hit the right spot. The way he sighed or moaned meant so much more with these visuals. It struck something mushy and _cariñoso_ in Panchito’s heart, a part of him that was a little too wide open with how drunk he was. That was what made him kiss every part of José’s face as he slowly fucked him, even pausing occasionally, just reveling in the way José squeezed around him. And God, how he squeezed around him with his whole body when he came, uttering moans and breaths that blended together like a symphony.

When Panchito himself finally came, it was like a tired ocean wave washing over him, delayed and even gentle, lasting a long time but never dragging him under. Almost peaceful. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, he dropped down on top of José, catching his breath for minutes, secretly so thankful for the way José’s arms wrapped around his back, holding him. Things had never ended like this.

Still breathing hard, Panchito eventually pushed himself up to look at José in the warm light, brushing away a strand of hair from his face.

“What?” José said, the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips.

It took Panchito a moment before he gently said: “You knew.”

“Yeah. I did,” José admitted with an apologetic smile.

“How?”

“It’s like I said – you’re exactly my type of man,” José casually replied, that sly little look in his eyes again. “Don’t worry though – nobody else can tell. I promise.”

Panchito let out a long sigh, the last of the anxiety that dwelled in him. “Well, that’s good to know.”

Later, he lay on his side next to him and studied Jose’s face as he smoked that cigar again. “You’re the pretty one, you know.”

José smirked and said, “Just wait ‘til you see me in a dress.”


End file.
